Too Disgusting to Contemplate, Too Compelling to Ignore

Because I'm all about the presidents...

2007-03-08T01:49:00.000-08:00

My blog is worth $27,662.46.
How much is your blog worth?

Kicking off the anniversary week with a quiz...

2007-03-04T09:30:00.000-08:00

Where's Waldo Dirk?

2007-02-07T19:24:00.000-08:00

I've moved!

My new address is

http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Same shit, different location.

Tell your friends and change your bookmarks!

Breakroom potpourri: snow, snacks, segmented savior scenes, and Superman's splooge moose

2007-01-22T10:57:00.000-08:00

After the mammoth blizzard of two thousand aught seven yesterday (total accumulation: 3 inches), the workplace was abuzz with the incredibly brave and moving stories of how co-workers battled to survive the ~~fury~~ irritation of Mother Nature.

Some like Lorna, spent the wintery day baking dozens of delicious cookies and cupcakes which she brought to work to share with everyone.

Others, like Hannah, took the elements head-on so that they might attend services, receive holy communion, and rejoice in the love of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, then returned home to enjoy the fellowship of their families while the whole clan worked over time assembling a jigsaw puzzle depicting memorable moments in the life of the son of God.

However, unlike most of those people, Hannah brought the puzzle box to work to show us the fruits of her Sabbath labors (and I think I speak for the masses when I say who among us has not found him/herself flabbergasted, flummoxed, and at a general loss for words when shown an empty puzzle box and informed that the speaker has indeed assembled the contents that once laid therein...only at home "because it's so hard to transport and all").

"I'm going to stop at the store after work and get some puzzle glue and a frame," she announced in that monotone of hers, which always suggests she has had all the life beaten out of her as a by-product of getting good with God.

It was interesting to note that the puzzle in question was not a traditional square, but instead a shaped puzzle, so the question of how she intended to frame it loomed large in the back of my mind. And yet I remained silent, lest I be subjected to one of her seemingly endless monologues that inevitably winds up asking the question, "...so have you accepted Jesus as your personal Lord and savior?"

And then there were those like Melina, who saw the wintery maelstrom as an excuse to curl up and watch a movie.

"Lindzy got SUPERMAN RETURNS for Christmas, so we watched that," she brayed between sips of microwaved cocoa. "Have you seen that shit?"

"Yes," I replied.

"What's up with him having a kid? I watch SMALLVILLE every week and Superman cannot have sex if he has his powers -- he can only get hard if he is normal!"

"Say again?"

"On SMALLVILLE -- Clark couldn't fuck Lana until he lost his powers. When he got them back he couldn't get hard again."

Quietly horrified, Hannah turned her puzzle box over, resting her folded hands atop it -- I think in hopes of shielding Jesus's ears from "language."

"Melina, Clark's ability to maintain an erection has nothing to do with his super-powers. He refrained from making love to Lana because he was worried that he might become so excited during sex he might not be in full control of himself and accidentally hurt her."

"Dirk, I watch that show every week. They came right out and said he could not get hard when he had powers. Plus, I used to watch LOIS AND CLARK

(**Author's note: which she pronounced LEWIS AND CLARK)

and they could not have a baby on that show...because Superman can't get hard. So that was total bullshit that all of a sudden they had one. Plus they acted like they never got married in the movie."

I suppose I could've explained that Clark's alien genetics was most likely the reasoning behind the fertility problems on the television series, and that the movie, like its small screen siblings, was simply another interpretation of the Superman mythos, but I neither felt like making the effort nor expected her to understand.

Thankfully, OCD Joe walked by at that moment, on his way to the sink where he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and began washing his hands and forearms repeatedly.

"You need to talk to that freak, Dirk," Melina stage whispered, stealing furtive glances back at him. "He was so behind in his work on Friday, I had to pitch in and help him get caught up. And he's done jack shit so far this morning except take a bath in Germ-X...but that's fine, because I am not helping him out again. It's time that boy either swims or gets out of the sink."

Some days it is just a divine pleasure to lead this group.

_______________

For more wacky workplace shit, check out my new digs over at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

I Smell Sex and Candy Kibble

2007-01-15T06:10:00.000-08:00

And on the seventh day, Dirk chatted. And it was gooooooooooooood...

Canine Cruiser: Whassup?
Dirk Mancuso: hey. how are you?
CC: Horny
DM: gotcha
CC: Age? 49 here
DM: 40
CC: I'm playing bitch to my great dane tonight.
DM: you have sex with your dog?
CC: Duh. He is my lover
DM: i see
CC: I let my male dog mount me as if I was a bitch so that he can get some release.
DM: besides being sort of fucked up on a lot of levels, doesn't that hurt?
CC: No. Only once he's in, he expands inside my rectum. It's called dog knotting.
DM: ouch
CC: The human rectum can accomodate a lot.
DM: methinks that breaks a commandment or something -- state and local laws at a minimum...
CC: Oh God, it feels so great. Plus, he leaves a quarter cup of cum behind after he shrinks down and pulls out.
DM: is he like most men and is done in 30 seconds?
CC: It takes him about 20 or 30 minutes for his knot to go down.
DM: and how'd you start this?
CC: Trained him from a puppy.
DM: no, i mean how'd you get started with dogs?
CC: My uncle and I were drunk and he dared me to let his greyhound fuck me
DM: so your family is cool with it. awesome possum. do you have a boyfriend?
CC: Not right now.
DM: wondered what he thought about the dog thing. what do the guys you've dated think about it?
CC: It's not something you talk about on the first date.
DM: i guess not. so how does one of your doggie dates go? you just whistle and he knows he's about to get some tail?
CC: When he sees me on the floor crawling around butt ass naked, he knows what to do.
DM: and you would have me believe that shit doesn't hurt when he is trying to get in you?
CC: I'm not stupid. I make sure I'm well lubed so he slides right in.
DM: so just like with a guy?
CC: Yes. Exactly the same.
DM: you should write a musical..."guys and dogs"
CC: ??? I should get going. He is giving me the look like he wants it.
DM: guess you better go assume the position then, ya sick puppy fucker
CC: I don't fuck him, he fucks me.
DM: oooooooooh! thanks for the clarification -- that makes all the difference in the world

The internet: making your world a little scarier every day.

_________________________________________

For more scandalous chat, look for me at my new location http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

It's time for "The Adventures of Sissy and 'mo" -- Today's Episode: Caution - Sudden Curves Ahead

2007-01-03T08:43:00.000-08:00

Fresh from the train, 'mo exits the train station and flags a cab.

"XXXX West Blah Blah." Since Thad's fella has a full New Year's weekend planned, 'mo will be staying with his friend, Sissy.

As the cabbie peels out, 'mo hears the click of the door locks. He looks down and much to his horror realizes that there isn't a visible knob with which to unlock the door. He cannot believe he was this stupid -- he ALWAYS checks this before he gets in a cab.

Panic surges deep within him as he recalls that this is exactly how the killer captured his victims in THE BONE COLLECTOR.

Within seconds, his mind is awash in a multitude of scenarios in which he is driven to an unspecified location and tortured for hours before his nude, lifeless fish belly white corpse is dumped in an abandoned lot or dumpster. He hopes the press will be kind and not refer to him as "the aging, out of shape faggot."

As the cab continues to zoom through traffic, 'mo does the only thing he can think of: he takes photos of his cab number and sends them to his friend back home with a text message:

IF I AM DEAD WHEN YOU GET THIS, HERE WOULD BE A GOOD PLACE TO START INVESTIGATING.

"This is the address, no? Sir?"

'mo suddenly realizes the driver is speaking to him and looks up.

Huh. What do you know? 'mo is sitting in front of Sissy's condominum.

* * * * *

'mo is just waking up from his nap on the sofa when Sissy comes home from work.

"Hey, 'mo. I'll be out in a few. I've got something I want to show you, gurl."

'mo is flipping through the latest issue of Soap Opera Digest when Sissy sashays into the living room buck naked per usual. 'mo pays no attention since Sissy is a practicing nudist and he has seen that impressive ebony junk a zillion times before.

"Ahem."

'mo looks up from his magazine and finds himself face to face with Sissy's chocolate colored cock. Only there is something different about it this time. It's...shiny. And hard. But not in the "I sure am glad to see you" way.

No, today Sissy's cock is...imprisoned in a clear plastic vented tube.

"Is that what I think it is?" asks 'mo.

"Yep," replies Sissy, hands on hips, crotch jutted out into 'mo's face. "The Curve. $168 dollars of plastic chastity. Nigel gave it to me." Nigel is Sissy's adorable OB/GYN boyfriend who currently became elgible for membership in AARP.

'mo reaches out gingerly, then pulls his hand back. He looks up, eyebrows raised. "May I?"

"Please do."

'mo leans in close, peering at the plastic prison surrounding his pal's pee-pee and studies The Curve's unique design. Cautiously, he pokes it with his index finger.

"This is very nice, Sissy," he says in awe of his friend's new acquistion. "Much nicer than the stainless steel cock sock Thad and I saw at IML..."

"And much more comfortable, I'd wager," Sissy giggles. "Oh, sorry about all the baby oil -- it keeps me from chafing."

'mo is undeterred by the greasiness -- he is too busy marvelling at the design and apparent comfort of the apparatus. While he is already knee deep in a celebration of celibacy, this is certainly an interesting accoutrement to insure one does not fall off the wagon.

"I think we need to take you shopping," Sissy says. "Little Dirk would love it!"

"Alas, I shall be attending the thea-tuh this evening," sighs 'mo. "Perhaps another time."

"No worries, gurl. You go and have you some fun! But don't stay out too late -- Thad says you're having brunch with his friend Darrin tomorrow..."

____________

Tomorrow: The last blind date. EVER.

...And the Adventures of Sissy and Mo continue at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Nancy Boy and the Really Bad Trip to the Dentist

2006-11-27T06:29:00.000-08:00

A few years back, my dentist gave me some bad news: I had the beginning of a cavity and a filling would be necessary to prevent further decay and possible dental problems down the road. Even though every part of me wanted to ignore his diagnosis, I couldn't.

When the day finally arrived to go under the drill, a stern looking blonde woman of East German descent entered the waiting area and barked, "Dirk Man-COO-so? Come viss me!"

Instantly, a litany of warning bells and sirens went off in my head. Where was Vikki, the regular dental hygienist and why had she been replaced with this ?

"Haff a seat, Dirk. I zee you are here to haff a cavity filled."

"Uh-huh." I was already sweating like a whore in church. "Um, where's Vikki? She's usually here when I have a filling..."

"Vikki has accepted employment elsevhere. I am zee new hygienist. My name is Anna." She pronounced it "On-uh."

Fuck. Me. Hard. Sweet Vikki had been replaced by one of the Goebbels girls.

"Well, since you're new, I should probably tell you a couple of things," I began. "First off, I am scared of needles. Don't like them, don't want to see them, don't want to hear about them."

"Vhat?!? You are grown man! You must stop acting like a child!"

"Whatever. Second, the dentist doesn't drill until my jaw is numb. NUMB. We're talking full on punch in the face and I won't feel a thing NUMB. If the doctor has to see 5 other patients until it gets to that point, so be it."

"Zat is ridicu-luss," Anna informed me. "Ziss is a bizzness und ve cannot accomodate a lee-tull BAY-bee who is afraid of a stick from a needle."

I sat there, speechless. Who the fuck did she think she was? And where did she get her chair-side manner -- Dachau or Auschwitz?

"I'm going to get zee Novocaine," she announced and left the room.

Knowing what was next, I sqeezed my eyes tightly closed and waited for the inevitable.

"Ziss vill not hurt a bit," Anna said as she entered the room.

I opened wide and waited for the stomach churning sting of the needle piercing my gums. But it never came.

"Alright. You can open your eyes now."

Unable to believe there had been no pain, I blinked my eyes open only to see Anna standing right before me holding a needle. A FULL needle. At that moment, all I could hear in my head was "Is it safe? Is it safe?"

"I told you: I'm never supposed to see the needle!" I screamed.

"I know vhat you said, Dirk, but you need to get over ziss fear you haff and stop being a lee-tull BAY-bee."

Breaking out in a cold sweat, my hands clenching the arms of the chair, I was livid. "I came here to get a damn cavity filled, not for aversion therapy!"

"You a lee-tull bay-beeeee!" Anna shrieked. "Look at you...you a grown man and you acting like a lee-tull B-A-A-A-Y-bee!"

Frankly, I wouldn't have give a shit if she had called me a cross-dressing puppy fucker at that moment; it's true -- when needles are involved, I AM a lee-tull bay-beee. "I don't care," was my petulant reply.

"I'm going to tell you a story about a lee-tull boy who vass also a lee-tull B-A-A-A-Y-bee but learned to be a man."

"Knock yourself out sister."

"Vunce, there vass this lee-tull boy and all zee other children called him a lee-tull bay-bee because he was scared of everything. Vhenever they vould ask him to play, he vould say 'no -- I'm scared' and they vould say 'you a lee-tull B-A-A-A--Y-bee, you a lee-tull B-A-A-A-Y-bee.' Vun day, the lee-tull boy vass at zee playground and a lee-tull girl asked him to go on zee slide with her. Zee lee-tull boy said no, he vass afraid."

As she told the story, Anna hovered over the chair, staring me directly in the eye, her voice high and wild -- obviously NOT an inside voice.

"Zee lee-tull girl told zee lee-tull boy 'you can do it...I beleef in you. You can do it. You're not a lee-tull bay-bee, you're a man.'

Zee lee-tull boy went over to zee slide and climbed a few steps.

'I can't,' zee lee-tull boy cried, 'I'm scared!'

Zee other children laughed and said 'you a lee-tull B-A-A-A-Y-bee, you a lee-tull B-A-A-A-Y-bee!'

'You can do it,' zee lee-tull girl said, "I beleef in you!'"

I sat there, blinking in disbelief at the teutonic terror before me, unable to believe this was actually happening.

"Zee lee-tull boy climbed a few more stairs and again he said 'I can't, 'I'm scared!'

Zee other children laughed and said 'you a lee-tull B-A-A-A-Y-bee, you a lee-tull B-A-A-A-Y-bee!'

'You can do it,' zee lee-tull girl said. 'I beleef in you. You can do it. You're not a lee-tull bay-bee, you're a man.'

Zee lee-tull boy climbed all zee way to zee top of zee slide and looked down. 'I can't slide down!" he cried, 'It's too high!'

Zee other children laughed and said 'you a lee-tull B-A-A-A-Y-bee, you a lee-tull B-A-A-A-Y-bee!'

'You can do it,' zee lee-tull girl said. 'I beleef in you. You can do it. You're not a lee-tull bay-bee, you're a man.'

Zee lee-tull boy took a deep breath and went down zee slide. 'I did it! I did it!' he cried.

'I knew you could do it,' zee lee-tull girl said. 'You not a lee-tull bay-bee...you a grown man now!'

Don't you vant to be like zhat lee-tull boy and be a grown man?"

"Not if there is a needle involved, I don't." I replied.

"I can't beleef you, Dirk. You are not a man, you are a soft little BAY-bee."

"Yep, that's me."

Just then the dentist came in. "How're we doing, Dirk?"

"Well, I'm pretty keyed up over the shot and Heinrich Himmler over here is not helping. Is there someone else you could get to assist?"

The dentist looked from me to Anna and back. "S-u-u-u-u-u-re. I'll get Tracy in here..."

Anna glared a both of us: me for my status as not only a "lee-tull bay-bee" but also as a snitch, the dentist for caving in and allowing some faggot candy-ass to call the shots.

And so Tracy was ushered in as Anna was shown the door, and thirty minutes later, the ordeal was over. As I made my way through the waiting room, I saw my best friend and his wife sitting there. He took one look at me and burst into gales of laughter.

"Oh my God! That was you, wasn't it?" he roared.

"Huh?"

"The 'lee-tull bay-bee'...that was you, right? We could hear that whole thing out here."

"Yeah," I replied, "that was me, laughing boy. You just remember how funny it is when Hitler's handmaiden has her mitts on your pearly whites." And with that, I flounced out in a huff like any self respecting faggy-gay-homo would.

_______________

Don't be a lee-tull bay-bee! Get more nancy boy at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief...Doctor, lawyer, indian chief...Tinker, tailor, soldier, man whore

2006-09-19T05:42:00.000-07:00

Way back in the day (we're talking summer of 1975 here, folks) my nine year old self became obsessed with ALL MY CHILDREN. Oh even back then, my lil gay heart heart loved nothing more than a good old fashioned story of star crossed lovers who fought every obstacle to be together. The show's original Romeo and Juliet were Phil Brent and Tara Martin, who married themselves one snowy night in a roadside church before Phil shipped off to Vietnam. Discovering she was pregnant with Phil's baby just as word of his death was received, Tara turned to Phil's buddy, super dreamy Dr. Chuck Tyler, for support and eventually married him. That's when -- you guessed it -- Phil returned home alive after all!

Okay, that's standard soap opera, no big. But in the summer of '75, head writer Agnes Nixon introduced a new character to the show, one based on an article she had read. A character unlike any other I had ever seen. One larger than life, and twice as glamorous to my pre-teen mind. A character who would have me glued to the screen for the next several years, unable to wait for the next thrilling twist to her story.

The character? Teen-age prostitute, Donna Beck.

From the moment she was wheeled into Pine Valley Hospital with a leg injury sustained when her pimp, Tyrone (played by Gordon from SESAME STREET, so I knew a pimp had to be a good guy), threw her from a moving car and on-the-rebound Dr. Chuck Tyler laid eyes on her, both he and I were smitten. Her huge teased cotton candy hair, the heavily rouged cheeks, the crimson lips were just gravy. She had us at hot pants and halter top.

As Donna healed, Tyrone returned to take her back to "the life" on Locust Street and I was enthralled to learn about things such as "the stroll" and "flash clothes" as well as meet Donna's best friend Estelle La Tour and her pimp, Billy Clyde Tuggle.

I can't say what about Donna fascinated me exactly, but I was unable to look away. I remember going over to a friend's house to play and rushing home to watch my half hour window into her tres chic world. As her story became more and more prominent, I began to have more and more questions. Questions Ms. Nixon and her team of brilliant scribes just weren't answering. So I went to my grandma.

"Grandma, what's a prostitute?"

My grandma looked up from the green beans she was cutting the ends off of and replied, "Somebody with a lot of boyfriends. Here...snap these beans in half and hush."

As I saw all the good looking "boyfriends" Donna had in addition to the sexy Dr. Chuck, I figured being a prostitute was a pretty good gig. Yep, I was sold. Of course, being a lil gay kid, I didn't dare tell anyone how lucky I thought Donna was to have all those groovy fellas wanting to take her out, so I just lived through her (even riding my bike home for lunch every day from school to keep up with Donna. It was only two blocks and this was when child molesters just molested you and didn't kill you out right so my school had no "on grounds meals" policy, plus the show was a half hour so I would only miss the first few minutes).

Of course, eventually Chuck saved Donna from Tyrone -- who was sent back to SESAME STREET to jail, dammit! -- and ended up marrying her. I grew a little bored with her when she quit her job, donned the Mary Tyler Moore fashions, and constantly whined "Tara is trying to steal my husband!" but then something else exciting happened!

Donna had a "hysterical pregnancy" and Chuck discovered Tyrone had had her tubes tied to prevent her from getting knocked up and having to pay for abortions. "The life" was still part of Donna's story! Hallelujah!

Again, I had questions.

"Grandma, what does it mean that Donna got her tubes tied?"

My grandma looked up at me from the apples she was peeling and replied, "It's a surgery that means she won't ever get fat. Here...have some apple peel and hush."

Wow. Great job, killer wardrobe, cute boyfriends, AND a nice figure. That Donna Beck bitch had it going ONNNNNN!!

Donna underwent surgery to reverse the tubal ligation but before she could conceive, Chuck cheated on her with that whore wannabe, Tara, sending Donna off the deep end. While driving with Estelle and sobbing hysterically, Donna's car stalled on the tracks and she and Estelle were hit by a train. Of course it was a Friday and I was distraught all weekend. Would she die? Or worse yet, would it be one of those "scarred for life until we decide to give you that miracle surgery that leaves no scars and reunite you with your boyfriend" stories? I didn't know if Donna could even get work if her face was all mangled and shit. It goes without saying I was pretty worried.

Thank God, the next episode found her alive and well, but suffering from the greatest thing ever: amnesia. Donna thought she was a prostitute again and went back to Locust Street to peddle her wares. Out came the wicked cool clothes and the tons of make-up. The men came out of the woodwork to see their favorite girl back on the stroll. And Chuck's grandma paid Billy Clyde to make sure Donna went back to turning tricks, to keep her out of the wealthy Tyler clan. It was all very exciting with lots of prostitute lingo and scenes of Donna at all the seedy Locust Street dives. I took notes. I still have them.

And again, I was more convinced than ever that being a prostitute was the best job in the world. Even better than being an actor. And since it was on TV, it had to be a pretty good way to earn money, right? Well, you'd think so.

But you'd be wrong.

One day my mom's Aunt Carrie came for a visit. Aunt Carrie was a judgemental old shrew who, like the rest of the family, took a very dim view of my mother's decision to keep me and made no bones about rubbing my mother's face in it every time. (Once when I was around 5, we went to visit her and she made my mother give me a bath in a huge metal tub on the back step instead of letting me use the shower. We went home the next day.)

So Aunt Carrie was sniffing around my grandma's, finding lots of things not up to par with her high standards (my uncle called her "Sanitary Carrie" behind her back and to her face), and spotting me, she began asking me questions.

"How is school?"

"Are you studying hard?"

"Do you have any friends?"

And the clincher..."What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Always eager to please and maybe finally be treated like my cousin Robbie, I thought for a moment. I was only 11 and had never really given it much thought -- I was too busy inflicting her 832nd miscarriage on my Supergirl action figure -- so it was a pretty tough question. And then like a bolt from the blue, it came to me.

"I think I'd like to be a prostitute. But a boy one."

Aunt Carrie nearly swallowed her teeth.

Yep. The illegitimate bastard boy had just unknowingly announced he wanted to sell his ass to men for money. And had seemed damn thrilled with his choice of vocations, too.

Aunt Carrie marched me right to my mother and told her what I had said, then launched into a huge speech about what was wrong with me and how everyone had tried to warn her. My mother came back at Carrie about her foster son, Gene, who stayed with his real mom for weeks at a time, only coming back to Carrie for money to go out "carousing" on. When the feud was over, my mother sat me down and asked me if I knew what a prostitute was.

Not really, I admitted, but told her it looked like fun on tv.

My mother told me that prostitutes were bad people who got diseases that made their parts down there fall off and then no one wanted anything to do with them after that. "Plus, part of their job is putting their mouth down there and then their teeth turn brown and fall out. Is that what you want?"

I shook my head.

"Then you better find a new line of work, pup."

And so my dreams of being a man-whore were dashed before they ever had time to flourish. My man-gina would remained unsullied and unsold. My fortune in hot pants and silk shirts would never come to be. That legion of boyfriends? It too would go unrealized.

Sometimes when I'm standing before a mirror in my rubber hot pants, mesh tank top, cowboy hat and Howdy-Doody boots, I wonder how different my life might've been if I just kept my mouth shut that fateful day. Who knows...I might have been typing this as a doctor's partner who suffered from periodic bouts of amnesia and fell back into the life.

Or, more likely, a genitalia free short order cook with no teeth.

Guess I'll never know.

_______________

More childhood trauma at my new home http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

They melt in your mouth, not in your snatch

2006-08-23T07:13:00.000-07:00

Growing up, our next door neighbors were an older couple whose crazy Jesus freak daughter, Joan, would come home periodically to live for extended periods. This usually occurred when either 1) her on-again/off-again husband decided he'd had enough of her extremist religion -- for example, she didn't use laundry detergent, just threw their duds in hot water to soak -- and sent her ass packing until he realized how much he loved and missed his boo, or 2) some wildly inappropriate God-based revelation had come to her and she was unable to live with the man who had laid down with her to father her children but who could not accept the plain and simple fact that the Big Guy and his kid were talking to her via the Home Shopping Network and a giant bag of snack size Kit-Kats. We always knew when Joan was back for a lengthy stay because of her muffler-less Gremlin, her booming voice, and her three behaviorially challenged children, Mickey, Timmy, and Audrey.

Mickey who was a couple of years younger than me, would stay in his grandparents' house and refuse to come out except for school or church. Timmy, the middle child, was a slightly mentally handicapped kid who would latch onto anyone who would give him the attention his mother seemed incapable of, and Audrey was a sour faced tomboy with a perpetual scowl on her face due to Joan's "women don't wear pants" stance.

The summer I turned 17, Joan was in the midst of a lengthy stay and Timmy -- 13 at the time -- took a particular shine to my mother. Every night at 6:30pm, like clockwork, there would a knock at the door. It was always Timmy, with two big glasses of iced tea (one for my mother and one for himself).

"Hi, Lola," he would say in his slow halting drawl. "I brung you some ice tea my nana made."

And every night my mother would go out and sit on the stoop with him, sipping tea and talking to him about his day. I asked her once what they talked about every night. "The other little bastards at school tormenting the shit out of him because he's retarded...that bitch of a mother's violent temper...and some goddamn video game or another. I don't have a fucking clue what he is going on about half the time, but the poor little shit needs someone to pay some attention to him. It wouldn't kill you to talk to him once in a while."

Say what you will about my mother (and there is plenty to be said, I know), she does have her heart in the right place. In the center of her chest, slightly to the left. I kid. Seriously, she does have a soft spot for kids, animals, and the less fortunate. She also has one hell of a knack for inducing guilt in me.

Which is how I wound up sitting on the stoop with her and Timmy a few nights later, listening to him rattle on and on about a spat with his mother over new sneakers, his love of peanut butter cups, and the dangers of lint.

At one point during the conversation, Audrey came into view at the corner, stooped over and shambling along. Timmy was up in an instant. "My sister has my candy," he announced, more to himself than to either my mother or me. "I need to get it back."

He waited until Audrey reached her grandparents' driveway and approached her. My mother and I exchanged amused glances, then settled back to watch the show.

"Audrey, I want my red hots. I know you took them. Mickey don't like red hots." Timmy took a beat. "If you don't give them to me now, I'll go to mom."

Audrey glared at Timmy for a second, her cro-magnon brow creased with pure hatred as she looked from him to my mother and I and then back at him. After a few uncomfortable seconds of this, Audrey reached onto her dress pocket and threw a half empty bag of red hots at her brother, then stormed into the house.

Timmy rejoined us, a smile of satisfaction plastered on his face. He held out the bag of red hots to each of us in a silent gesture of sharing. My mother took a handful but I declined, being more of a Junior Mints sort of fellow.

"Your sister looked pretty mad there, Tim," my mother said.

He nodded. "She would be in big trouble if I told on her."

"I bet." My mother finished her red hots and accepted more. "Taking shit that doesn't belong to you is a bad deal, Tim."

"Yes, stealing is wrong," he replied, poking some more candy in his mouth, "but that's not why she'd get in trouble..."

My mother and I exchanged looks. I knew what was coming.

Three.

Two.

One.

"Why would she get in trouble, Tim?" That woman is like Old Faithful when it comes to getting to the bottom of something.

"Cause this one time when Audrey didn't come home for supper, our mom went looking for her and found her at the playground..."

"Hmmm...eating candy and ruining her appetite, huh?" my mother asked, leading him along.

"Kind of. Audrey was poking the red hots in her 'gina and then eating them and our mom was real mad. She beat Audrey all the way home."

I burst out laughing, glad I didn't like red hots enough to have taken any, let alone indulge in seconds. My mother sat there stunned. After a few moments she dumped the remaining candy in her hand on the ground, then took one look at me and her laughter joined mine until we were both holding our sides, tears streaming down our faces.

A couple of things happened that night.

One, Audrey was henceforth and forever more referred to as 'Gina. And two, my mother was forced to realize she had gone against one of her most basic admonitions: Never take candy from a stranger.

Especially if said stranger's sister has a cinnamon scented cooter.

_____________

The filth has moved! http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Bitch, I know you didn't

2006-07-25T06:14:00.000-07:00

It's been hot here. The kind of hot where you get out of the shower, get dressed, and five minutes later you are soaking wet with sweat. The kind of hot where you don't want to eat, move, or think about anything other than where you can get the next refreshing gulp of ice cold water. That kind of hot.

In addition, the a/c at work has been working at a little less than maximum capability, which in turn has made everyone a bit irritable. The kind of irritable where you want to launch yourself across the room and throttle the ever loving shit out of, oh say, a spittle spewing, safety pin and bugle bead earring wearing, shambling fashion disaster or a "I wouldn't say shit if I had a mouthful" holy roller.

But I digress.

Where was I? Hot...irritable...okay. So it's hot and everyone's irritable and they are carrying around a bottle of water. Everyone except one Mr. Dirk Mancuso. I don't work like that. If I am lugging around water, I will also be asking if you would like to start with a delicious onion loaf or if you are ready to order. Why? Because a fucking water bottle is just an excuse not to do any work. Allow me to provide an illustration:

LAZY FUCKER (eyebrows raised, right hand on cheek, left hand holding up empty water bottle): Oh my! Look at that -- my water bottle is empty! I'd better go fill up.

And scene.

Now this lazy mother fucker will be gone a minimium of forty five minutes because when they got to the fountain "Lorraine was there and ohmygod, did you hear about her ovaries? Swollen the size of small labrador puppies! Doctor says it is a rare condition mostly seen in Papua New Guniea and..." The rest doesn't matter because it is just another way the individual in the example will waste time they are being paid for. And of course all the jaw jackin' will do one thing: make them thirsty. Which will cause them to drain their recently refilled water bottle and that will -- you guessed it -- necessitate another trip to the fountain.

And that shit irritates the living piss out of me. But upper management overrules me on this matter during the summer so I grin and bear it. And I keep my bottled water in the break room fridge where I can enjoy its cool deliciousness at breaks and lunch. Or at least that would be the reasonable assertion.

Of course, when it comes to Melina reasonable flies out the window.

So there we are yesterday, sweating our asses off because the a/c has gone almost completely out and the repairman is expected within the hour for 5 fucking hours and, then mercifully, lunch rolls around. Thank you, Jesus. I believe.

So I trot my ass to the fridge, grab my ginormous 32 ounce bottle water, my seedless water melon cubes, and my book and plop down at my table. Within seconds, in shambles Melina and Lorna followed by Holy Hannah. Melina is going off at the fucking mouth about how her husband is too cheap to install central air so she has to sit in front of a fan with a spray bottle to stay cool at home and she is going to have central next summer if she has to kill her husband and use his life insurance to buy it, blah blah bitty bitty blah blah.

And of course out of all the tables in the fucking breakroom, where do her and her posse park their rhinoceros asses? That's right. At mine.

So Melina was sitting across from me, flipping through her copy of The Enquirer ("Katie Holmes sleeping alone as Tom takes off"...Jesus, they seemed so happy...."Whose tits are real and whose are fake"...Lindsay Lohan's look good, she must have a great doctor..."), slurping her thin little 8 ounce water, smacking away on a bag of Cheetos, and launching small orange projectiles with every word she said. Lorna was listening and painting her nails, while Hannah nibbled her daily pack of Austin peanut butter and cheese crackers and most likely saying a litany of prayers for all our tortured heathen souls and I am trying my best to divorce myself from all of them.

That's when it happened.

"Christie Brinkley's husband was cheating on her with a 19 year-old!" Melina cried in mid chew and somehow sucked like half a fucking Cheeto down her throat whole. Before anyone could sit back and watch her turn a lovely shade of magenta she grabs for some water.

Let's stop here for a minute. 'kay? Remember how I described my 32 ounces of cold deliciousness and her paltry 8 ounces of pure nothing? Okay, guess which one she grabs for relief?

Yep. Mine.

Before I could open my mouth, her paws had grabbed that fucker and guzzled a full third of it before slamming it back down on the table, its clear cooling refreshing goodness now clouded with bits of Cheetos backwash. I just sat there, while Lorna and Hannah made over her poorly dressed ass, acting like she had just performed gall bladder surgery or something on herself.

"What?" Melina asked, noticing the intent gaze alternating between her hideous visage and my one chance at relief from the heat.

"Jesus Christ, Melina," I replied, "you had your own water right in front of you...why did you grab mine?"

"I don't know, Dirk," was the fucking Heffalump's reply, "maybe I was too busy choking to pay attention to grabbing the right goddamn bottle of water."

I just sat there, seething, looking at my water with the tiny bits of swirling orange chum, mocking me and my thirst. Melina sat there staring at me for a minute, then grabbed my water bottle and went to the sink where she poured out the contents, rinsed it out, refilled it and then returned to the table, slamming it down in front of me.

"There," she announced. "Better?"

I sat there, jaw clenched, thinking about her germs all over the lip of the bottle and staring at her stupid fucking face for about thirty seconds, then grabbed the bottle, stood up, threw it in the garbage and went to the office to read my book until lunch was over.

And so I was christened "the hateful bastard" yesterday.

All hail me.

_______________

Don't miss a Melina moment -- find her and all the rest of the gang at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Dirk Mancuso Fun Facts Series 4 - Bedroom Edition

2006-07-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

This comprehensive fun facts series covers the entire history of the mid-west's least beguiling and most uninspiring homogay, Dirk Mancuso, from his inception through the turbulent decades to his current incarnation. As with Series 1, 2, and 3, Dirk Mancuso Fun Facts Series 4 - Bedroom Edition comes complete with 10 Fun Facts and now with a Bonus Sticker! Select packs may include the dorky bastard's personal stats and home phone number on a special embossed holographic autographed "Parallel" card. Collect 'em, trade 'em, impress your friends! Build your collection today!

I have always played safe.
Cut. As in "Dirk does not have a turtleneck."
More of a catcher than a pitcher. (Yeah, it's a baseball reference, Suzy...)
I have starred in several boudoir productions including "Escaped Convict and the Warden's Son," "May I Offer You a Ride, Mr. Hitch-hiker, Sir?" and "What Do You Mean You Bought Me For a Pack of Cigs?"
I am not afraid to try new things. Unless they pertain to waste.
Lights on or off, makes me no difference.
I'm a goer. Sometimes to the point of hearing "Just shoot already."
I can be, shall we say, loud.
Kissing and cuddling are high on my list. Whipped cream optional.
I have earned the nickname "Puddles" for my pre-coital habit of leaking copious amounts of -- oh geez, folks, you can fill in the rest...this is sort of interactive, you know.

And now in conjuction with HNT, here is your Bonus Sticker:

Fun Facts - 2007 Series available at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Ask the Mom on the Street

2006-07-18T23:18:00.000-07:00

Remember those "Man on the Street" segments that used to be popular on the local news? (At least around these parts they were...). Well, I thought it would be fun to ask people their take on current events, but since I am too lazy to get off my ass I decided to just ask the one person who knows everything: my mother. What follows is 100% pure unadulterated, no holds barred mom. If you are easily offended, please turn away now. You have been warned.

DIRK MANCUSO: What do you think about the judge's decision to throw out John Kouey's confession in the murder of that little girl in Florida?
MAMA MANCUSO: I'd like to talk to that dumb shit face to face. "You are a real smart fucking judge." That's what I'd tell him. I think somebody better get their shit together and figure out why OJ and Robert Blake and all these fucking child killers are on the loose and why the horny math teacher is getting life for letting some student poke her. Fuck that shit. I'd hang any stupid bastard that raped and killed a child. I'd ask questions later. He did it, they know he did it, I know he did it, and that's enough. Stupid son-of-a-bitch. Oh "he's got problems"...if I hear that shit one more time, I'm going to puke. Yeah, he's got a fucking problem: he kills children. Hell, they put Old Yeller down for less and he was a good dog. This is a clear cut case and if he gets off, those jurors and that judge should have to hire him as a babysitter and see how goddamn well they sleep with their verdict at night. Stupid fucking law to protect a shithead that confesses. I should be on every jury. There's be a lot less fucking crime, that's for sure.

DIRK MANCUSO: Since you mentioned it, mom...what do you think about the growing number of teachers sleeping with their students?
MAMA MANCUSO: I just don't get the law and these kids. The more they punish the teachers, the more these kids are going to do it. Get a bad grade? Fuck your teacher and get her locked up. And 17 years for having sex with some damn kid who should've had enough sense to keep his pants on in the first place? Murderers don't get sentences that long. Jesus. And the little shits are probably off bragging to their buddies "oh I got some ass." One of the boys' mother said he is so upset he gets the shakes when he thinks about it at night. Well, I'd tell him to grab his own dick when he gets one of them spells and he won't need his English teacher to get his thimble full of junk. Nobody made that horny lil bastard poke her. If he was mine, I'd teach him. I'd put a cement anchor in the ground and hook his ankle to it. Let's see his ass run off then and get into shit he shouldn't. And then one of those boys is supposed to have brain damage...what the hell has that got to do with it? She didn't use his head. Jesus. Any excuse rather than take responsibility. The whole world is fucking crazy. Then you got the teacher on tv bawling her damn eyes out. Go ahead and cry, honey...that lil pencil you was getting wasn't worth all this trouble, was it? Shit. Ain't NO dick worth it. And then that one teacher gets off with practically nothing because she was pretty? That is bullshit too. If that had been a man, they'd had castrated the poor bastard and fed him his nuts before the jury was seated. Treat them all the same or don't charge any of them. And then I hear how these little shits are damaged for life. I'll bet they are damaged. Hell no they aren't. The lil bastards should be locked up with their teachers. I'm sure those boys weren't held down. They were thinking "Oh, I'm going to see what this is all about" and then probably went to school the next day bragging "ooooooooh, I had a piece of tail...I'm going to try that again!" The little prickheads. If she'd killed him after sex, they'd give her a half hour of prison time and probably a goddamn cadillac to boot. And the good thing is, if she gets knocked up, she's got a job and can support the kid. We aren't talking about some dumb 15 year old the state has to support. Think about it. I didn't see you going after your teachers. So it's all in the upbringing. Teach your kid that shit is nasty and they'll keep their business to themselves.

DIRK MANCUSO: What's your take on this ongoing White House CIA leak scandal?
MAMA MANCUSO: You know how I feel about Bush and his crooked cronies. He's more worried about queers getting hitched and running all over the country on the tax-payers dime then he is running this country. Or running it completely in the ground, I should say. And Cheney and Rove...they make my ass tired. Scooter Libby. I'd indict and convict him just for having such a stupid goddamn name like Scooter. The whole damn lot of them are lying and they just keep waving at the cameras and flashing those shit eating grins that piss me off. Bush is "Skull and Bones" and that shit is just like Scientology. Crooked to the core. All of them. Secret society and all that shit. If you belong to that, they should scratch your name right off the ballot. Of course in Florida, he'd still miraculously appear on it, but we know why, don't we? I don't want to hear about Clinton's blow job ever again. How many soldiers died because of some cum on a fat girl's dress? Not one.

____________

Mama Mancuso's moved! http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Behold...

2006-06-22T05:08:00.000-07:00

...the lips that could make the hearts of duct tape fetishists around the world skip a beat and propel me to international superstardom. Or at least make me a few bucks.

Wow. Me...a model.

Remember my runway strut, Trout? All those minutes of practice? To think it could all pay off now...

Fame, I hear thy fleeting call, you fickle bitch.

And I am ready to answer.

(Hey, does this qualify as my first HNT post?)

_________

Find more shallow gay ramblings at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Sit. Stay. Put on some damn pants.

2006-05-28T07:27:00.000-07:00

Allow me to preface this post by saying that I am a non judgemental sort of fellow. If you and your partner enjoy an activity, you are both consenting adults, and no one is hurt by the result of your efforts, then hey...go for it. That said, I witnessed once again this year what is for me one of the most confounding and more than just a lil disturbing spectacles at IML. The Pup Zone Room.

For those of you uninitiated into the wonders of the pup phenomenon, it is quite simple: there are folks -- men and women-- who identify with the puppy mindset and enjoy engaging in puppy activities (crawling on all fours and playing ball, drinking from a bowl, doing tricks for snacks, sniffing each other's butts, etc). They dress in a wide range of attire from shorts to jock straps to actual dog masks and play and frolic while their "trainers" stand by to make sure they don't get out of hand with the other pups. And even that doesn't really phase me. What sort of weirds me out is the little "tails" some of them have. And by "tails" I am not referring to some cute lil furry thing they have stuck to their posterior, I am referring to a rubber/latex/what-have-ya tail that bobs and shakes when they move. How is it attached, you ask? Um...well...hmmmmm, how to put this delicately...it is um...okay, it is attached to something said pup inserts into themselves. Got it? Hope so, 'cause Uncle Dirk's delicate sensibilites prevent him from coming out and saying it is attached to a butt plug they are wearing.

At any rate, I was sitting by a trainer and his pup watching a couple of older June Cleaver types --one white, one a little black woman who looked like Mother Jefferson from THE JEFFERSONS-- (and before you ask, I have no idea why they were there in their floral housecoats with their Lord & Taylor bags over their arms, heads tilted toward one another, discussing the pups) and decided I would get the skinny on this whole pup fetish. Trainer Laurent explained to me that it was about getting into the pup "mindset" and allowing the unconscious mind to take over, responding not to actual words but the intonation of them: happy, sad, fear, disgust, anger, surprise.

Uh-huh.

He went on: pups feel and respond to only those few emotions; they do not experience shame or guilt. As a result, the pup gets into a place where he or she becomes so uninihibited and carefree they experience things at a more simplistic level and enjoy a euphoric high of sorts. And this "high" puts them in a zone where they hear words but more in the Charlie Brown teacher drone, responding only to the intonations. The "high," he explained, is similar to that one may experience during bondage.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Okay. That I understood.

Looking down at the poor, creepy little dog masked fella nuzzling my leg, I patted him on the head and offered up my patented clenched teeth/"I am so fucking creeped out" smile and wished them luck at the canine carnival. I had gone about as Brenda Starr as I intended to on the topic and wandered off to see what else the evening offered...

______________

And I'm going back to IML this year. For full details, stay tuned to the new blog: http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

"Well, yes this is called the Help Desk, but c'mon..."

2006-05-22T05:34:00.000-07:00

Back in the day when I worked in a library we had an elderly man whose son would bring him in every two weeks like clockwork. This gentleman was a very voracious reader and an all around nice guy. He had been a very active individual until the early onset of Parkinson's disease which had caused him to shake very badly. But through it all, he kept a good sense of humor.

One day his son brought him for his twice monthly book search but this time he came to the desk and asked myself and the other librarian working, Annaliese, if we could keep an eye on his dad for about 45 minutes while he ran into work and picked up some papers he needed. She quickly agreed, much to my dismay. Anytime an old person is left in your care, it cannot end well.

This time was no exception.

The son had no longer left the library when the elderly man made his way up to the desk and asked where the restrooms were. Annaliese smiled and pointed around the corner.

"Young man...do you think you could help me get there? I'm a little shaky."

A little shaky was akin to saying Paris Hilton is a little slutty. But being the damn good guy that I am, I walked around the desk and took the old fellow by the arm and led him to the restroom. Upon entering, I ponied his ass up to one of the three waist to floor urinals we had and started out.

"Young man?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you wait until I am done?"

"Uh, sure." Guys, I'm sure you hear that from your wives and girlfriends all the time, so you can imagine how I felt.

So I stood there. And stood there. And stood there, waiting for the old guy to make lemonade and be done. But nothing.

Finally, he half turns and says, "Young man, I hate to ask...but I can't get my zipper undone. Could you help me?"

The hair stood up on the back of my neck.

"Please?"

Gathering up all my courage, I approached him and gingerly unzipped his pants, kind of pulling the fly to both sides to make a big opening for him.

"There you go," I mumbled.

"Young man?"

Oh shit. I knew where this was going.

"I hate to ask, but my son usually helps with this...could you take it out and hold it while I go?"

Okay, see this was like the SOPHIE'S CHOICE of customer service: do I let the poor old fart piss himself and sit in the library humiliated and risk angering his son, or do I reach in and hold his geriatric manwang while he relieves himself. All I could think was here was this poor old man who had probably fought in every battle since the Trojan War and his body was giving out on him to the point where the simple act of taking a whiz was a mighty effort.

I swallowed my revulsion, pulled his member out, and aimed. And that is where things REALLY got weird.

As I was holding his pretty ample flaccid unit, he got a serious case of the shakes. Particularly from the waist down. And I wasn't holding him tightly, so the shakes sort of made it wiggle back on forth between my fingers.

And he got excited. Real excited.

"I'm sorry, young man," he kept saying as the never ending stream of piss continued.

"Uh, it's alright...just finish peeing, okay?"

Finally he did. I did my best to tap off his unbelievably hearty piece of wood and put that rascal away. I was feeling so dirty and it must've shown on my face, because when I looked up, the gentleman was all teary-eyed.

"I'm really sorry about that, young man," he said in a low tone. "I just can't do for myself like I used to."

"It's okay," I replied and led him over to the sink where we both washed up and then I led him back to his table.

Getting old sucks ass.

Getting old and going through shit like that sucks even more.

The big four-oh is not going to be a good day here at TDtC, TCtI, kids.

Let the countdown begin.

_____________________

I've moved! http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

He's just a love machine and he won't work for nobody but her

2006-05-17T11:36:00.000-07:00

When I was five, my mother got remarried. Why she chose the man that became my stepfather has always been, and shall always remain, a mystery for the ages.

My stepfather --or Old Boy as I refer to him-- is a little odd. Actually, he's a LOT odd. We're talking the love child of Gary Busey and Phil Spector odd. And now, at his advanced age --80 something-- he seems to think he has still got it going on and has begun walking around the house nude, showing off his junk to anyone who would like to take a gander. And I'll be honest, I've taken a peek, because having seen the rest of what he has to offer, I figured it had to be his gravy maker that had sealed the deal with my mother.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

The poor lil thing is no bigger than a newborn's pinkie finger and it's all recessed up in this...this...this shriveled chicken mcnugget looking thing I am pretty sure is a ballsack. To up the "ick" factor, he isn't circumsized and the foreskin just sort of droops off the end and comes to a weird looking point. Kind of like a sweet potato. Or Swee'pea in the Popeye cartoons.

My mother's response when I pointed out the uncanny resemblence between Old Boy's johnson, a creepy cartoon baby, and a yam? "I wouldn't know. I don't get near or even look at those things. They smell like old dough."

Old. Dough.

The day my boyfriend's veiny bangstick starts smelling like the day old bread store is either the day he gets a Stick-up smacked on his pecker or the day I get a new boyfriend. I will endure sporting events. I will pretend to be interested in action movies. I will gladly indulge in a rousing session of "Escaped Convict and the Warden's Son." But I will not --NOT-- under any circumstances, entertain the notion that a sour crotch is acceptable.

They say love is blind. I think in my mother's case, it's crippled and crazy too.

_______________

Old Boy and Mama Mancuso have moved along with me. Check us out at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Chapter 6: In which Dirk goes all Afterschool Special on everyone's ass in an uncharacteristically low key moment

2006-05-16T06:11:00.000-07:00

The first memory I have of ever realizing that I was different was in kindergarten. It was during storytime and the teacher called all the kids to sit in a semi-circle while she read us a story. I sat at the back of the group with another little boy, Eli, and as the teacher began the book, the two of us held hands, listening and looking at the pictures as she held the book up. Sometime during the story, the teacher's assistant knelt down beside us and smacked our hands.

"Don't ever do that," she whispered, her furrowed brow a sure sign we had done something wrong, "That is bad."

I let go of Eli's hand and sat there, feeling terrible, even though I didn't know what I had done wrong. I felt like crying, worried that she would tell my mother when a.m. kindergarten was over for the day. After that, Eli and I were moved to different tables and not allowed to sit together anymore.

Lesson learned.

___________________

For more maudlin shit, come on over to the new site: http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Leggo my Eggo!

2006-05-15T07:03:00.000-07:00

*** The following account is based on true events and repressed memories recovered through hours of "Good Touch/Bad Touch" puppet therapy. Read at your own discretion.
____________

Back around Christmas, Michael and I went out for a night of karaoke and beer. Per usual, we got there late and the front bar with the decent view of the stage was packed which meant we were relegated to the back bar with the mediocre view of the stage, but the decent view of all the hook-ups and attempted hook-ups going on. No problem. You get the best of both worlds there: pathetic drunk guys trying to score some tail and all the off key warbling you can handle.

As I my ears bled and my blood alcohol level rose, I zero-ed in on one couple in particular: a cute Carson Daly-ish guy in his early 30s and a bespectacled Danny Devito lookalike a few stools down on my right. Danny was pawing at Carson, telling him he wanted to show him heaven or some other scenic vista, but a smirking Carson was looking for a bit more. As the evening went on, Danny told Carson he had a very important job in the city and could give him a job that included a company car, an expense account, and lots of travel. And Carson, besotted and beguiled by the promise of the finer things in life (like maybe some hair plugs), seemed to be buying into the whole spiel. Until, he finally noticed what I had been looking at the entire time I had been watching them: Danny's wedding ring.

The second he spotted it, I could see his body language change. Carson pulled back from Danny, finished his 2oth Mohito, and started gathering up his things. Danny, realizing his prey was escaping, began hanging on his arm, begging him to stay for one more drink, and standing on his tippy-toes, trying to give him a kiss.

Unable to hold my bladder any longer, I told Michael to give me an instant replay on the denoument when I got back and excused myself to the men's room. I hadn't realized how much I had had to drink so getting there proved a bit more of a task than I had planned on, but through perserverance and sheer will-power I made it.

I stumbled to a urinal about three quarters of the way down and was fumbling with my zipper when Danny walked in and, without hesitation, ponied up at the urinal next to me. Not one over. Not at the far end. Right. Next. To. Me. Which is a huge problem.

I have shy bladder.

So there I stood in my drunken stupor, staring straight ahead at an ad for Mr. Ed's movie FAILURE TO LAUNCH (I remember this vividly for some reason), praying Danny would make lemonade and vamoose. I could feel the urine at the gate, tapping its foot, but refusing to flow until we had some alone time.

"I saw you at the bar," Danny said.

"Uh-huh," I offered weakly, my distended bladder growing more so exponentially by the millisecond as I tried to focus on the flattering cut of Matthew McConaughey's suit in the poster.

I could hear him finishing off now, so I knew I would have relief soon. That's when I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was leaning over and staring at my third leg, like a dog eying a bone. Okay, bad analogy.

"Niiiiice," he purred.

Before I could respond, he reached out and pinched Mr. Winky between his thumb and index finger. By the time my mind processed what he was doing, it was over.

"Sorry," he grinned, "I couldn't resist." And with that he was gone.

I don't know what disturbed me more: getting man-handled at the pump or him not washing his hands on his way out.

As the urine suddenly began to flow, the alcohol haze lifted ever so slightly and it hit me: I had just experienced "bad touch." Uninvited "stranger danger." For all I knew, he had used his Secret Squirrel eyeglasses to take a picture of my giggle stick and would be posting it on the internet before I could get back to the bar.

I finished my business, then went over to the sink where I washed both my hands and my unit, then removed the Germ-X from my coat pocket and deloused my fun truncheon right then and there. When I got back to my stool at the bar, Danny was there with Carson who had decided to give the old boy a tumble after all and they left arm in arm. He shot me a huge grin on the way out.

After they were gone, I told Michael about my "BORN INNOCENT" moment in the washroom and all he could do was laugh until he held his sides.

Fucker.

______________

Don't miss my latest bathroom fondling -- you can find me at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

From the Desk of Dirk Mancuso

2006-05-09T05:29:00.000-07:00

To: To the bitch that nearly ran me down on her rascal at Borders
From: The hobbled Dirk Mancuso

I'm not sure when having ankles the size of Butterball young boneless turkey breasts and a pendulous apron of abdominal fat hanging over your snatch became a recognized disability, but I'm sure you lumbered up the DMV the second it was and got you a handicapped parking space sticker. How handi (ha-ha) for you now to ride about on your motorized chair, eating caramel corn from the basket and slurping your jumbo size Orange Julius.

You probably don't remember me...I'm the guy who was browsing the 3 Books for the price of 2 table and made the mistake of walking around the table at the exact moment you came barreling through on your fully charged death machine and ran over the back of my heels. You probably also don't recall looking at me as though I had rammed 250 pounds of steel carrying a two ton load over your heels, wiping the foam from your top lip with the back of your hand and gurgling "Jesus Christ, watch where you're going!" in that thick Harry Carey/Jabba the Hut voice of yours.

No, you were probably too intent on the 5,000 calorie snack you were going to scarf down while reading the latest Rosemary Rogers romance. (And just so you know, Lady Jocelyn does give into the randy stablemaster's charms and forsakes her true love Lord Millingabout only to be reunited with him moments before giving birth to his firstborn son and then hemorrhaging out, leaving him to raise their offspring alone.) Enjoy the book!

In your face, bitch!
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To: To the woman at the vet's office who was dressing like she was twenty when she was at least three times that
From: One visually distressed Dirk Mancuso

Don't. Ever. Do. That. Again.

I'm serious, ma'am. No one was fooled by that incredibly fake fall of blond curls cascading out of the back of that scarf you had tied as a headband. No, we all knew better. And the jewled high heeled sandals? Uh-uh. Sleeveless blouse exposing rolls of sagging skin and old lady chicken arms? Please...no one should have to see that. And the fabulous gauzy skirt? Now that was actually kind of working for you.

What wasn't working for you was the fact you weren't wearing underwear and when you stood up, the back of your skirt was sucked so far up in the crack of your ass I think I saw the outline of your sphincter.

I cannot imagine what your furniture at home smells like. And I don't want to.
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To: To the incredibly cute vet with the french accent
From: The woefully smitten Dirk Mancuso

I know you must have thought I was quite the fucktard just standing there staring with my slack jaw and glazed eyes, but the sound of your voice was the auditory equivalent of warm massage oil being dripped onto my back and then slowly worked into my flesh, relieving my tired and aching muscles, leaving me relaxed and limp, as your hands explored my body, a slow heat building just under my skin and gradually growing into an inferno threatening to consume us both in a fiery embrace that was oh so wrong and yet oh so right, and culminating in a full night of mad, passionate lovemaking right there on that stainless steel examing table in front of both God and Mr. Whiskers.

Speaking of which, what's wrong with my cat again?

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Who's pissing me off now? Find out at my new place http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

From the mouths of moms...

2006-05-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

Wednesdays around here have a tendency to be a post about my mom more often than not, and those posts seem to be pretty popular, so why not give the people what they want?

For as long as I've known her, and yet excluding at least one incident I am sure of, my mother has shown a general distaste for the act of sex. Call it it what you will-- lovemaking, act of congresse, a roll in the hay, roughing up the suspect, a cleveland steamer-- my mother brought me up to believe it was immoral, unclean, and just plain wrong on so many levels. To support her claims, she would offer up stories meant to provide illumination and scare me into a life of resolute heterosexual celibacy. Hence the following offering:

While in her 20's my mother accepted an invitation from a man to go out on a date. Following a hamburger and a coke, the man suggested they take a drive and my mother accepted. According to her, she began to get a bit wary when they left the city limits but said nothing. After a while, the man parked in a secluded area, unzipped his pants and removed, in my mother's word's "his damn ol' nasty wooly-booger" and informed her that an oral gratuity was in order as repayment for dinner.

My mother, being the level-headed individual that she is, did the only thing a woman could do in that situation: she took off a penny loafer and smacked him as hard as she could on the end of it and told him to take her home.

"Prickteaser, my ass...dumb sonuvabitch sex predator...I wouldn't have done that for lobster and a house salad," my mother always interjects at this point and if she is telling this to, oh let's say, someone while standing in line at Target or Wal-mart, it always generates a huge laugh. But growing up this story was actually the build-up to something bigger. Something important. Something life-changing.

It led to a moral.

"You know why I didn't put that damn nasty thing in my mouth?" my mother would query. "Because it is nasty and dirty and putting anyone's business in your mouth will turn your teeth brown. You look at Mary Ann Dunbridge's teeth next time we go to the five and dime...and then you look at that woman she lives with's teeth..." My mother would always trail off here, then quickly get back on track by leaning in very close and hissing, "So I'll know if you have ever done any of that filthy shit, you hear me?"

And so for years I never put anything in my mouth that wasn't deep fried or smothered in icing. Then one day...well, let's just say that in college, I threw caution to the wind --on a near daily basis-- and the scales fell from my eyes. In fact, in nearly two decades since that inital foray into the pleasures of fellation, my dentist regularly tells me I have very nice teeth.

Which leads me to believe that either my mother was lying or I am one VERY lucky bastard.

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What will she say next? Only one way to find out -- check out my new blog home at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

"Breathe deep the smell of desire, m'lady," Lord Chesterton rasped in the comely wench's ear

2006-04-12T13:37:00.000-07:00

When I was around 10, I camped out in a tent at a friend's house overnight. The next morning I went home early for some reason or another, letting myself in quietly so as not to awaken my parents. I need not have worried.

Tip-toeing to my bedroom, I passed theirs, the door wide open. And in one horrific moment my eyes were forever seared with a visual that I think may have subconsciously cemented my inevitable foray into the world of same-sex relations:

My step-father atop my mother, going at her like a house afire while she lay lifeless beneath him, head turned and arm extended off the bed, holding an issue of TRUE STORY magazine which she was reading while her erstwhile paramour was engaging in what was apparently his greatest semi-necrophilic fantasy.

And it was then, as I stood there frozen in place, my would-be father figure's vigorous panting filling my ears and his lily white ass rendering me snowblind, that my mother delivered the pièce de résistance to this Addams family-esque tableau:

"You about done? My leg's falling asleep..."

And lo, a blog title was born.

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The romance lives on at my new site http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

There Was Never an Afterschool Special About This

2006-04-06T08:14:00.000-07:00

About 10pm last night, Michael and I realized we had not eaten all day, and since we were on our way to karoake where drinking is a requirement, we decided to grab a quick meal at the IHOP. Michael dined on a delicious b-l-t and coffee while I indulged in chicken strips, garlic toast, and a vanilla milkshake. When the waiter came with our check, mad impetuousness reared her ugly head and we both decided to go for dessert. Michael had the banana cheescake something or other, while I went with the apple pie a la mode.

From there it was over to the karoake bar. The moment we entered, our auditory canals were assaulted by a diminutive crooner with a killer bod savagely tearing his way through "Like a Rolling Stone". I think Bob Dylan actually died during those three very long minutes just so he could turn over in his grave. That led to the introduction of beer #1.

#'s 2 and 3 were inspired by a slight fellow in a duster who bore more than a passing resemblence to Fran Leibowitz belting out a not half bad version of Meatloaf's "Two out of Three Ain't Bad". What killed his performance was his insistence of using his left hand to rise and fall with the notes he was going for. A decent karoake vocal will always be killed by stage affectations. Trust me.

#4 was imbibed to deaden the effects of a tone deaf fellow who insisted on singing Mariah Carey (with Boyz 2 Men)'s "One Sweet Day" with what I think was a rhesus monkey in a unitard and press on nails. It was during this ordeal that the Bob Dylan wannabe, who was standing next to me, peeled off his form fitting Body armor tee, pulled his pants down to the root of his unit and began flexing for me while talking in a language I last heard during the Skull Island sequence in KING KONG. I will admit he had one hell of a rockin' body, but for me at least, any man that fits in the palm of my hand is likely going to elicit giggles more than anything else.

At that point, Michael was growing weary and announced he was going back to the apartment. I however was much too caught up in the musical atrocities being committed in the name of entertainment and opted to stay a while longer.

Cue beer #5 and a gentleman and his bespectacled fag hag who had the mind numbing lack of originality to do Sonny and Cher's "I Got You Babe". While their vocals were average, what pushed this past the point of all comprehension was the bulk of the gay men in the bar striking a Cher-esque pose and flipping back imaginary Rapunzellian locks while singing along. At that point I had enough music...but not enough alcohol. So I crossed the street to another bar where I had three more before heading back to Michael's.

I quietly entered the apartment and was surprised to find Michael awake, reading in bed. Michael kept reading as I got undressed and lifted the covers at the foot of the bed and began crawling upward. About halfway, I noticed Michael wasn't wearing his boxershorts and decided to make a friendly "pitstop". As he continued to read, I extended the oral favor, much to his delight. After a few minutes, I began to feel lightheaded and started to pull off, but Michael applied a hand and said "no...that feels good" and gave my head a slight shove downward.

Which triggered my gag reflex.

Which brought up the undigested apple pie a la mode.

All over Michael.

Which led to my stripping the bed and doing laundry at 3:19am.

You always hear about this happening to others. You never think it will happen to you.

Ugh.
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And the filth continues at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Carrie eyes

2006-04-02T09:12:00.000-07:00

"A crazy woman walks into a doctor's office..."

2006-03-29T09:22:00.000-08:00

Allow me to relate an "amusing" story my 75 year old mother shared while I was driving her and 3 of her lady friends to the big city for a day of shopping:

My mother calls to make an appointment for her monthly/yearly/bi-decade/whatever gynecological visit and is informed that her regular ob/gyn has left the practice, so she agrees to see the doctor's replacement.

The big day arrives and she goes to the clinic, puts on the paper gown, and gets in the stirrups. Soon a young man enters, introduces himself, and begins the exam.

"Wow," he says to my mother, "you are very tight for a woman your age."

And my mother reples, "That's not my vagina, you dumbass. That's my rectum."

Cue peals of laughter while I struggle not to aim the car into oncoming traffic in an attempt to make it all stop.

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Enjoy this? Check out my new home at http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/

Parenting 101

2006-03-15T18:56:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I never wanted to comply with my designated bedtime. I would create a million excuses to stay up and a million more why I should be indulged. And my mother being the uneven disciplinarian that she was, would find this to be a most problematic dilemma. Whereas a good ol' fashioned ass whooping bordering on corporal punishment was fine for most acts of disobedience, my carefully thought out list of reasons why a relaxed bedtime would work better for all involved seemed to leave her stymied.

But being nine kinds of crazy, my mother managed to come up with an appropriately effective solution that managed to succeed on two levels: one, it got me to bed and two, it worked as psychological warfare of the highest order.

I must have been about 5 or 6 and remember lying on the sofa, watching television, when my mother told me it was time to brush my teeth and go to bed.

"But, mom-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m--m..." I began before launching into my litany of Vatican approved reasons for undefined bedtimes.

"Okay," my mother sighed, "but if the Whistler gets you, don't come crying to me...."

"The Whistler? Who's that?"

"Just some guy that goes around shooting little kids in the head when they won't go to bed on time," she replied and went back to finish the dinner dishes.

Undaunted by the potential threat of a gaping head wound, I returned to worshipping the cathode ray god. Watching from the kitchen, my mother waited until I was completely unaware, then snuck out the back door and circled around the front of the house. Once she was outside the living room window, she began whistling.

Within seconds I was in bed, covers over my head, eyes squeezed tightly shut, praying I had dodged the psychopath's bullet.

And that, my friends, is how you get a child to behave and render them completely neurotic for the rest in their life in one fell swoop.

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Who will the Whistler go after next? Check out my new home to find out! http://dirkmancuso.wordpress.com/